O and P
by GreyShadeOfQuietMouseColour
Summary: Grantaire stood stricken, his eyes wide. Where was this place where he now found himself? How came he to be here? He knew neither of these answers, nor had he any memory of what had befallen him. Yet something must have befallen him because, as he looked down at himself, he became aware of a vivid patch of red slowly spreading over his grubby waistcoat and crumpled shirt...


What came next was in fact light. A tunnel of light so bright it burned the eyes to look at. If every lamp in Paris had been burning in the same room at the same moment it could hardly have created a glow half so bright. It had the appearance of stretching away into the distance but at the same time seemed no more three-dimensional than the glow from a lamp reflected onto a wall by a shard of glass. At once close and impossible to reach. And all around a curious humming sound, as if the very air itself were vibrating; more sensation than noise.

Grantaire stood stricken, his eyes wide. Where was this place where he now found himself? How came he to be here? He knew neither of these answers, nor had he any memory of what had befallen him. Yet something must have befallen him because, as he looked down at himself, he became aware of a vivid patch of red slowly spreading over his grubby waistcoat and crumpled shirt.

His first recourse was the jug. He believed this vision before him to arise from the mingling fumes of beer, absinthe and brandy and the only cure seemed to drink more until he passed through this frightful stage of nightmares and into black unconsciousness. This solution was, however, impracticable; there was no jug to hand.

Yet even in his darkest alcohol-induced vision this had never before occurred. Whatever his state, when the rest of the world dissolved around him into nightmares and furies, the jug in his hand stayed as real and tangible as it had always been. This, therefore, could not be drunkenness.

At this point in time many a more rational mind may have been wont to give way to panic and alarm. Grantaire however felt a strange sense of bravery rising within him. Perhaps it was his scepticism. Believing nothing, he was afraid of nothing. Perhaps he was simply unable to comprehend his situation. He felt himself a man in a fever, hovering between sleeping and waking. His surroundings had a strangely dream-like quality to them, but he knew they were not. He knew himself, without knowing how he knew, to be awake.

Without moving he became aware of something other than the light. Yawning behind him was a black chasm. Not merely lacking light, it seemed to create and exude darkness; a creeping mist. Even without turning, its sinister presence at his back was palpable. Grantaire didn't turn, although he couldn't have explained why he resisted the impulse. Had he looked, he would have seen a pit, deeper than deep, and far below a faint red glow, wafting up sulphur fumes, deathly cold and fear. He kept his eyes fixed on the light, waiting.

And as he waited, something moved into the light. What was it? What could possibly stand in that light and yet not be eclipsed into insignificance?

It was a man, beautiful as an angel or an Adonis reincarnate, still as if carven in marble. An aura seemed to blaze around him, picking him out against the backdrop of light. His back was turned, his head bowed. One of his hands was outstretched slightly. To look at him it seemed this statue by holding out his hand was making a gesture of concession. At the same time it was a summons. Grantaire knew that it was meant for him.

And yet his feet would not move. In him something was creeping, a doubt, slithering through his mind like a diseased serpent. Why would the summons be meant for him? How could he, disbeliever that he was, approach that statue? Such a being must surely despise him.

And then suddenly something was drawing him backwards away from the light. The fearsome chasm behind him was drawing him on, willing him with a voiceless malice to turn around, away from the light. Walking into the light, following the marble statue, _his_ marble statue, was difficult. And yet turning and stepping into the abyss required no effort. Grantaire wavered and cringed. Of their own volition his feet took a step backwards. The pit was calling him. It drew him on, encouraged him, and Grantaire, powerless to resist, but with his eyes still fixed on the man in the light, followed.

But even as he backed away he saw in front of him, glimmering and flickering as if through a sheet of water, two pinpricks of light. What were these lights? To Grantaire they seemed to be stars floated down from the sky. The closer they got, the brighter they glowed until Grantaire was bathed in a pool of light, much like candle-light. His feet stopped and he stared. The humming noise surrounding him grew louder and more tangible and burst apart into a recognisable sound; that of laughter. Two voices laughing together, without words, but expressing such joy that Grantaire couldn't help but take a step towards them, however difficult it may be. And although Grantaire did not consciously recognise them, he knew the voices to be familiar.

Even as he stepped towards them, the smell of sulphur from the pit grew less and he could distinguish a new odour; Brie cheese. And then there they were, one on either side of him. Grantaire could not see them, but he felt their presence, like a child feels it's hand held on either side by caring parents. Together they walked with him closer to the light and the waiting statue.

Yet something in Grantaire cried out against them. It is impossible for a man to shed his nature as a snake sheds its skin, and Grantaire's mind was as incapable of belief as his heart was capable of friendship. And though these two beings drew his heart onwards towards the statue, becoming by the minute more defined, more real, his scepticism pulled him back towards the abyss. If only the figure waiting for him would turn his head, Grantaire felt nothing could hold him back. But it did not. It neither raised its head or moved in any way.

Trapped in this contradiction of his own nature, Grantaire again stopped and the dual presence either side of him stopped also. He felt as a man in a dream, aware that one wrong step and he would fall back into the chasm, yet not completely in control of his own actions and unable to influence what happened to him. He felt as a stranger in his own body. And as much as his heart yearned towards the light, his mind knew it to be an impossible aim. Caught and confused, he swayed as if about to swoon.

Again the humming around him burst into another noise. This time music like that of a dance hall, and behind it the crackling of a log fire mingled with the rustling of paper. And behind him Grantaire felt there to be another presence. A half-remembered voice full of laughter and animation whispered "Prodigious fool!" and it seemed as if hands grasped him under the arms to steady him. Once again Grantaire stood firmly.

But this time something was different. It was as if the presence at his back was obscuring the influence of the abyss and the figure in front of him was becoming clearer. And then he felt around him more half-remembered apparitions, shielding and guiding him. The smell of ink and paper, the rustling of pages, and warm fingers taking his own and leading him steadily forwards. Not rushing but never stopping.

Then a sweet voice, innocent as a child, whispering verses to the playing of a lonely, melancholy flute.

 _Lorsqu'en ajoutant votre_ _âge_ _à mon_ _âge,_

 _Nous ne comptions pas_ _à_ _deux quarante ans,_

 _Et que, dans notre humble et petit m_ _é_ _nage,_

 _Tout,_ _même_ _l'hiver, nous_ _é_ _tait printemps!_

And now Grantaire had the impression of something striding along next to him and as the apparitions became clearer and began to take on form he saw a rash waistcoat pierced at the heart by a great gash and stained with blood, a carbine in hand and a fool-hardy grin. And behind this a narrow figure with the hands of an artist and eyes blazing with defiance and determination. And finally Grantaire recognised his friends. Feuilly and Bahorel walking beside him, Jehan to his other side, Combeferre leading him on, Courfeyrac behind him and Joly and Bossuet one on either side, smiling at him.

In this way they led him on and instinctively he followed, walking like a man asleep. Ever closer to the figure waiting for him in the light. And now never once did Grantaire falter, for finally he knew who it was who was waiting for him.

And as they approached, the others drew back and fell silent and finally the figure raised his head and turned to look at Grantaire. The light around him reflected his superb majesty and to Grantaire he had never seemed more beautiful. Slowly, Grantaire advanced, his fingers reaching, his eyes asking silent permission.

Enjolras grasped his hand with a smile.


End file.
